


Words Unsaid

by Violet_Witch



Series: Broken Bird's Club [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Brothers, But also, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Family, Gen, Letters, Relationship Study, a little comedy... as a treat, alllll my Jason headcanons in this one boys, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25205566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Witch/pseuds/Violet_Witch
Summary: I can picture the face you’re probably making right now. (That is, in the universe where I actually give you this letter and, coincidentally, hell is frozen over.) You’re probably frowning in that way you do where your face stays still as stone because you’ve got the emotive abilities of a gargoyle.~~~Or, Jason decides to write a series of letters to his family. He’s never going to send them, but that’s not the point. The point is catharsis. And boy is there a lot of catharsis to be had in these emotionally constipated bonds.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Broken Bird's Club [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1419097
Comments: 30
Kudos: 136





	1. Bruce

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is standalone, and if you’re reading it as such, you can skip this, I just have to talk about Broken Bird’s Club for a second.
> 
> I’m writing Dick’s character study right now (coming soon to a screen near you!), and it occurred to me that Jason’s sort of suffered for having gone first. I wrote it in a fraction of the time I’m dedicating to the others, and I was still figuring out what it was and how to format, so this is my answer to that.
> 
> Think of this as my Jason supplemental, with more emotional nuance than his character study, less plot (not that any of these really have a “plot”), and about equivalent angst. Enjoy.

Dear B,

Fuck you, old man. 

I know I’m supposed to say things here that I wouldn’t tell you in person, and that certainly doesn’t qualify, but really. Fuck. You.

I can picture the face you’re probably making right now. (That is, in the universe where I actually give you this letter and, coincidentally, hell is frozen over.) You’re probably frowning in that way you do where your face stays still as stone because you’ve got the emotive abilities of a gargoyle.

Well, hate to tell you B, but your play at impassivity is in vain, because we can all tell. It’s in your eyes. The pain you flaunt like a fucking martyr, burnt for his divine gifts. The anger you pretend isn’t so like mine. There used to be something like happiness there too.

Bet you didn’t think I remembered that, huh?

I do though. I remember. Some days I wish I didn’t, but when the Pit put me back together like an artist shaping their sadistic mosaic from broken glass, it left me those memories. God only knows why.

On good days, I think maybe the golden light of happier times is still an intrinsic part of me, something even the Pit couldn’t leave out. Most days, when I think back on what the Pit left me, I see how it’s warped and cracked like wood in heat, shaped into fuel for the anger they gifted to me in the hopes I’d join their unholy crusade of fire and brimstone.

Well. I say ‘hope’, but I guess they succeeded didn’t they?

Now I imagine the pain in your eyes has morphed into the pathetic lostness of a kicked puppy at my mode of addressing my death—as if _I’m_ the one who should feel guilty about it.

That’s your problem B. You claim to love me, but it’s always about you, even when it’s about me. I’m the sidekick to your superhero. The antagonist to your protagonist. The tragic backstory to your tragic present.

My metaphors are getting repetitive, but it feels like the whole world is conspiring to frame my story as creator and creation. Or maybe it’s just you, and the way you always acted like the tortured Dr. Frankenstein to my monster.

Why is it so hard for you to love me as a person? Why is it that the only way you can love me is as a sculptor loves the broken remains of their mistakes after they’ve shattered on the floor? I’m a person, B, not a fucking vase.

You know what the worst thing is? You’d think it would be your father throwing you out like trash because he sees your flaws as _his_ failures, but no. The worst thing is, I think it might be my fault.

Those memories I mentioned still having? Maybe they’re tainted by nostalgia and idiocy, but I remember you loving me the way a father loves his son.

I remember all the nights we sat pressed together on the couch under one blanket with big, steaming mugs of A’s hot chocolate. I remember how you held me. How you dwarfed me. How, when your arms were around me, it was like nothing else in the world could possibly matter because I was finally _safe._ I remember the pride that used to live in your eyes alongside the pain—pain that was so much dimmer in those days.

So how— _how,_ did we get from there to here? I’ve wracked my brain, and the best I can come up with is my death.

I broke you, B. I don’t know how your twisted mind made this truly staggering leap of logic, but somehow losing me destroyed your capacity for love.

Maybe it’s a little arrogant for me to claim this, but, tough. You’ve been doing it for years, it’s about time you got a taste of your own medicine.

So, in that spirit, I want to ask you a question that’s not rhetorical this time: Am I the reason that you love with the self centered detachment of a would be god?

Answer honestly for once in your miserable life—and don’t bother trying to deny it either. Your obvious god complex aside, you are so selfish with the people you claim to love. Your relationships with them are always about you. How _you_ wanted to save Dickie from becoming you, _you_ needed to be reeled in by replacement, _you_ had to lie to us all to keep us safe, _you_ are so fucking persecuted, that obviously my death and resurrection are all about punishing _you_ because _god forbid_ my murder be about me.

And that’s what it always comes back to. You are a selfish, arrogant old man who plays victim in the same breath that you take responsibility for every scrap of darkness in this dark dark world. 

Maybe, if you could fathom for one second that the world isn’t your fault, and your job as my father was to be there for me, not fix me, maybe we could have… 

But no. I am irredeemable to you. Not a person to be understood and loved, just the broken shards of a shattered vase to be swept away and mourned. Never mind that I’m still alive. That’s just a minor inconvenience in the grand epic of Bruce Wayne, the tortured hero.

That’s why we can never be father and son again. You’re too busy mourning me to accept that I’m right here and in pain. You’re happy to make everything your fault, yet you won’t lift a damn finger to make it right again because you can’t function outside the walls of your own pity party.

After all, if you were to actually heal, who would be Batman?

Fuck You Again,

Your Fucking Son


	2. Tim

Dear Replacement,

I don’t hate you.

I _do_ dislike you, but at least now it’s on your own merits instead of your title. (I’m keeping the nickname though. Deal with it.)

The truth is, I don’t _want_ to like you. I don’t want to kill you anymore either, but you’re still Robin, and I can’t deal with that. It’s too much to overcome too soon. Maybe one day, but then why should I even try? It’s not like I’m part of the family anymore, so there’s nothing linking us but bad blood. I can’t imagine you’re any more interested than I am to revisit _that._

However, you _are_ important to the story of my life, in a way. It’s also possible I feel just a little bit bad about trying to kill you. Not bad enough to apologize though.

My point is, you’re getting a fucking letter and you better fucking appreciate it you brat.

Okay, let’s try this again.

I could go over the details of our first meeting from my perspective, offer the rationalizations I made at the time like some sort of pathetic excuse, but you’re smart and I think I yelled about it enough in the moment that you already know that stuff. You also probably already know that you were just the punching bag I used when I couldn’t get to B.

A different angle then.

We haven’t talked that much… ever, but let me tell you about what I see in you anyway.

You’re an idiot. Intelligent as fuck, but an idiot.

It’s the only explanation I can come up with for why you’re still Robin. You know what happened to me, and you still chose to put on the cape. You joined B at his lowest, just because—what exactly? You thought it was the _right thing?_

You’re too good for him, Replacement, and I would’ve thought you were too smart to idolize him the way you do. You don’t actually deserve to stand in his shadow and take all the shit that gets shovelled your way. It doesn’t make you a hero, it makes you a doormat.

That’s part of why it’s so much fun to poke you.

It’s like a game. How many times can I annoy you before you snap and finally stand up for yourself. I like to think of it as medicinal: I’m helping you grow a spine.

But, if we’re being honest here in these inky confines where no one else can see, I treat you like that because the alternative would be too painful to bear.

Replacement, you do something to me. I don’t… I struggle to find the words to describe it, but when I see you, all short and gaunt like you haven’t eaten in days, I get this urge to bundle you up in the nearest blanket and whisk you away to somewhere warm and safe. Hold you hostage until you’ve gained a few pounds.

I think it’s the costume. You go around wrapped in the colors I wore to my fiery death, and I can’t help but think that if only someone had warned me, everything I went through could have been avoided, so maybe I could do that for you.

Maybe, if I could just convince you that B isn’t doing you any favors, that this life will get you killed too, that you don’t deserve to live like this, maybe I could… but you’re not my responsibility, and you wouldn’t listen to me anyway. So instead, I tug on your pigtails and shoot spitballs at the back of your head.

I offered once, to make you _my_ Robin. I’m sure you remember what I’m talking about. In retrospect, turning me down was definitely the right call, but sometimes I still think about that offer. I think that I could be so much better for you than B is.

I wouldn’t force you to be something you’re not, or neglect you—and I _know_ he neglects you. He’s fallen so deep into himself that he can’t possibly be giving you the attention and support you need.

I would nurture that big brain of yours too. Don’t know how since I genuinely doubt I could keep up with it, but I’m sure there are better ways than B’s constant tests.

And, if you were my Robin, I would make sure you knew how proud I was. I wouldn’t ever let you doubt that you were my priority. Your safety and your health. The Mission could wait. Could go fuck itself, actually.

Thing is, it’s a pretty thought, but not a lot else. I have the experience to know what kind of mentorship you _should_ be getting, but I’m too damn broken to actually offer it to you.

I can talk the talk, but I couldn’t walk the walk, if you will.

So instead, I offer this advice: do something for yourself, babybird. Get some friends that actually know how to show an emotion, and hold onto them. Know your worth, and for god sake, don’t make it contingent on B in any way because that man is a disaster and he _will_ pull you down with him. You’re too good for that.

Okay, I’ve officially given you more compliments than I’m physically capable of, so a quick list of things I don’t like about you in case you were getting a big head:

You’re laughably tiny, like, how do you even fight? Swing for the kneecaps?

Your hair looks like a bird lived its entire life then died in it.

You talk like a robot.

You _move_ like a robot.

Your literature opinions are just wrong. Which ones, you ask? All of them. All of your opinions are wrong.

Related to the above, but also separate, your Star Trek opinions are wrong. If you want to fight about this again, come at me. Name a time and place. I’ll take you down fucker.

Your social skills are non-existent.

Your smile is just unnerving.

You have the creativity of an unenthusiastic paperclip. (Taking _my_ ex-moniker? Seriously? Again?)

When you’re not in a suit, you dress like an eighty year old man trapped in a teenager's body who's trying to pass himself off using said teenager's wardrobe, except he’s also blind. Buy something other than graphic tees. Please. I’m practically begging you.

That’s probably enough to sufficiently deflate your ego.

Lukewarm Regards,

Red Hood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: say it with me now, Tim Drake  
> Jason: Tim Drake  
> Me: is my  
> Jason: is my  
> Me: little brother  
> Jason: Replacement!!!! >:o  
> Me: no!


	3. Dick

Dear Goldie,

This letter is, surprisingly, the hardest for me.

Once I got myself going, B’s practically wrote itself. Like I’d cut a gash in my palm and was just bleeding all over the page. Replacement’s was easier, at least in part, because a small part of me almost wanted him to actually read it.

But you… I don’t know what to say to you, Dickie.

When I first came to the Manor, you were competition. A golden standard I had to meet—an impossible standard, I might add—but I’ll admit I was probably a little more hostile towards you than necessary. It wasn’t really your fault that you were the measuring stick B held me against.

In my defense, however, you were a Dickwad and I was prickly with everyone.

In those days, I couldn’t separate you from my fear of everything I wasn’t. You were friendly where I was fractious. You were elegant where I was brutish. You fit in everywhere you went, but I was always an outsider.

Foils, is the word for it. Two people that contrast so symmetrically, that they end up highlighting each other's strongest qualities. Not _best_ qualities, _strongest._

Anyway, back to my story. I tried not to think of you too much, because I knew I was worrying myself over something I really couldn’t control. If B kicked me out because I wasn’t enough like you then… well, at least I’d had a few good meals. When I did think of you though, it was always with resentment.

Resentment, and a little bit of awe.

Don’t think I’m not embarrassed as all hell about it, Dickface, but it’s true. I’m not sure you’ve ever come in contact with a single person who hasn’t fallen for your charm at least a little bit. Even the bad guys have something like respect for you.

Which, of course, fed the resentment even more. Gotta love these hellish cycles we create for ourselves.

But… that was in the early years. Not that we really had all that many years.

Based purely on the evidence I have now, I think you might have thought of me as a brother, before the end. As for myself, I wouldn’t know. What exactly are brothers supposed to feel for each other?

Out of all of us, you’ve always had the best grasp on family. I guess having loving parents in your formative years taught you something, but me? My parents didn’t teach me shit about family. How to survive, sure. But not family.

What I’m trying to say is that we might have been brothers once, I legitimately couldn’t say.

I remember the first time we ever got along. I’m not talking about being civil, because I’ve never been _civil_ with anyone in my life. No, I’m talking about the tamales.

I probably don’t need to lay the whole scene out for you—you were _there,_ after all—but it was the first time I remember us actually coexisting in a positive way. I remember being appalled at your cooking skills, and I remember having to fight so damn hard to keep my expression stern when I beat you away from my hard work with a wooden spoon. It was all I could do not to burst into laughter.

There were times after that. A couple of (mostly crappy) movies, a handful of patrols, but not a lot else. By the end, I liked you. I liked you, but I still resented you. In my experience, those two things are rarely ever mutually exclusive.

Then I died.

What a neat little conversational battering ram that is. I’ll bask in it’s exquisite and immeasurably entertaining brutality later though—back to you.

After I came back, I didn’t see you for the first two years or so, of course. First I was with the League, then Bruce kept you away, then I went underground.

I still hate how in B’s pocket you are, but I’m starting to think that something’s shifted between the two of you since I was a kid. I’m almost curious enough to buy you a drink and actually ask.

Of course, I can only really imagine that drink ending in one of three ways. 1) You end up crying and I have to bail from the awkwardness of it all. 2) We fight. 3) I push and prod and test until we finally find the upper limits of your ability to forgive, and you give up on me.

So, no drinks.

So far, I haven’t really done much except recap our relationship, if it can be called that. I’m honestly not sure how much of this is old news to you, and how much might come as a shock. I just… it’s like I said earlier. I don’t know what to say to you.

You slot yourself so simply into the role of my older brother, but I can’t be that for you. I can’t look up to you like a kid should look up to your older brother. Not when there’s so much between us, and simultaneously so little.

This is important Dick, I need you to understand this. I’m not your kid brother anymore, if I ever was at all.

You are… something to me. But that’s not it. And anyway, ‘brothers’ is supposed to be a two way street, and I know jack all about you. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s a good point. You’re so extroverted and buoyant all the time that I never really stopped to consider it before, but you ask everyone around you to bare their souls and trust you, without ever giving much in return.

You never seem to shut up, but what do you actually _say?_ Who do you go to for support? It sure as hell isn’t B.

Y’know, I’d actually be willing to believe there’s someone worth knowing under all that suffocating enthusiasm, but I’ve got a feeling you’re not ready to let him out yet.

When you are, call me. Make the drink worth the train wreck ending, and I might actually show up.

Not Your Little Wing,

Jay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this fic: Jason Todd and the Deep Emotional Significance of Nicknames and Insults


	4. Damian

Dear Demon Brat,

Why am I even writing this?

I don’t like you, you don’t like me, and we hardly know each other besides, so why, of all the things I could be doing, do I keep writing that salutation. I can’t think of what hidden feelings I could be harboring to warrant writing you a letter, yet my pen seems to have acquired a mind of its own, and for some reason, _you_ won’t leave my head.

I can imagine you being rather smug about that, you narcissistic asshole. You get that from your ratty ass grandpa, by the way. Thalia and B too, but they’ve never been quite as laughably pompous as you and the Demon’s Dick.

You’re whole blood line is a goddamn nightmare, actually. From your crazy gramps, to your sadistic ma, to your selfish daddy. In fact, not only are they all assholes, they’re all assholes who have specifically screwed _me_ over.

I’m sure you know the details. I imagine bragging about that kind of psychological and physical torture is a favorite topic of dinner conversation in the al Ghul household.

I should probably make it clear that I’m not grouping you in with them. You personally have done nothing to fuck me up, and I’m not the kind of stupid that conflates blood with culpability. You just happen to be the al Ghul this letter is addressed to. For some reason.

Y’know, in a lot of ways, you and I are actually pretty similar. You’re probably disgusted to even think about your commonalities with a street rat such as myself, but if you could set aside your oh so precious pride for a moment and think, you might agree with me.

We were both shaped into weapons by the League of Assassins, forged in their fire especially for B. We’re both assholes—although, since you’re technically just a kid, I believe the polite word is _difficult_. I could mention anger issues here too, but I’m pretty sure you’d bite my head off because you’ve _totally_ got your anger under control, right?

Most of all though, you and I have something in common that none of the other Robins really get. We’re killers. In every fight, we’re not just battling our opponent, but also the muscle memory ingrained into us to _finish it._ We know what it feels like to take a life, and while I think it’s actually pretty admirable that you’re keeping yourself in check, I’m also intimately aware how difficult it must be for you.

We’re not psychopaths, little Robin. At least, I don’t think so. It’s just, when you spend so long in that place where killing is nothing, like swatting a fly, it’s incredibly hard to unlearn that. Even harder for you since you were there so long, and for the most vital years of your development to boot. I will never admit this to you, but I’m pretty damn impressed with how you’ve grown beyond what they taught you.

I’ve grown too, even if B can’t see the difference. I’m still a killer obviously, but I understand what taking a life means, and I don’t do it lightly or for any sort of pleasure. Only when I’m certain the world will be better off.

But you. From what I hear, you went more or less cold turkey.

I don’t actually _know_ you, so I can only guess as to whether that’s hard for you or a relief, but I will tell you that when you’re older, and you can weigh both sides of the question with a fair hand, you might end up like me. Right now, with B whispering in your ear, that possibility probably terrifies you. Even more so with the shadow of what he did to me hanging over your head.

Somehow though, I can’t imagine that happening to you. Maybe it’s because you’re his blood son, or just that he loves you more than me, but if B could deign to take you in with so many kills already under your belt, I don’t think he’d disgrace you for an execution every now and then, as long as you keep such tendencies out of his city.

I could be wrong, of course. I can see my own bias and bitterness written all over that assessment, but from where I’m sitting, there doesn’t seem to be anything this family won’t forgive you for.

And boy does that get under my skin. 

The League made us both killers, yet B welcomed you with open arms, and me with a batarang to the neck, which begs the question: what, in the ever loving fuck, makes you so damn _special?_ Why am I an irredeemable monster, but you just need a little guidance?

If B had ever extended to me even a _fraction_ of the sympathy and patience he gives you, then maybe I wouldn’t be like this. Maybe the fire in me could have been tamed and I could have gone _home_. But no. All that tolerance is just for you.

For some goddamn reason, B chose to actually do something productive with his responsibility to take care of you, instead of using it all to castigate himself.

God, you make it so hard not to hate you.

With Barely Bottled Frustration,

An Outlaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thalia and Ra’s:** *basically immortal royalty with an army of assassins at their beck and call who’ve spent centuries honing their skills and perfecting the art of death*
> 
> **Jason:** y’all ain’t special


	5. Alfred

Dear Alfred,

I guess I should start with an apology. You were never anything but good to me, and I know that I caused you a lot of pain. When I died, of course, but also when I came back and every day since.

I just want to say, I’m sorry I can’t come back. If it were possible, I’d like to see you. I… I miss you Alfie.

Do you remember when we made risotto? Before you, I didn’t even know what ‘risotto’ was, but I guess by then I’d at least admitted I wanted to learn.

You were never condescending. That was the most surprising part. Adults tended to talk down to me in those days because they thought I was stupid, and because of my… well, everything. You didn’t though.

Having tasted proper risotto since then (yours, mostly) I know now that what we ended up with wasn’t all that good, but I was so _proud,_ and I think you were too. You smiled at me like you were anyway.

Alfie, you were my family. With everyone else it’s complicated and messy. Hatred and resentment and arguments mix with my fond memories like poison mixes with tea, but you… 

Remember when the kitchen was ours? It took us a while to get there. I wasted too many months running from your affection.

The point, though, is that is was ours. You taught me everything I know about about kitchens, actually. How to caramelize onions, and how to care for someone. How to chop vegetables, and how to say ‘I love you’ with a thousand tiny actions. How to kneed dough, and how to soothe away pain with the comforts of home.

I think that was the biggest thing you taught me. How to have a home.

I doubt that I’ll ever be able to give you this letter—I’m too much of a coward—but if I ever do, I’ll deliver it with a side of tea and biscuits.

I hate to tell you this Alfie, but my favorite part of the kitchen doesn’t have anything to do with cooking, or even food.

My favorite part was the window seat. That little alcove full of sunlight and warmth. You never joined me there, but don’t think I didn’t notice how your kitchen tasks stretched longer when I was in that alcove. I never minded the lingering, because I liked having you there too.

I loved that alcove because it was my favorite place to read. Even more than the library, which could get a little stuffy. Not a comment on your abilities, obviously, it’s just that the old books could feel heavy in a way that sometimes got to be too much.

That’s another thing I always thought of, at least a little bit, as ours. It felt sometimes as if you’d _given_ me reading. You read to me when I was young, gave me recommendations when I started branching off on my own, helped me define the words I didn’t know yet, brought me snacks when I was too absorbed in my book to do more than nibble, and discussed literature with me like you valued my opinion. The end result was this hunger inside me for the beauty of words, which I suspect was your intention all along.

It reminds me of the old cliche, “Give a man a fish, he eats for a day. _Teach_ a man to fish, he eats for the rest of his life.” You taught me to read, and I think you did it knowing that I’d at least have the option to never be completely alone again. _You_ gave me that.

You gave me so much.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return the favor Alfie, but I can at least set the record straight here; I appreciate it… and, thank you. One day, I hope we can have tea again. I’ve read so many more books since I saw you last, and I’d like to get your opinion. My cooking, I’m afraid, has probably only suffered from our separation, so you’ll have to whip me back into shape.

Shit, okay, ignore the blotches in the ink.

It’s just, things are never going to be that simple again, are they? I’ve done things since the last time I saw you. Such terrible things. Things that I’m sure B has told you all about, and not in the most generous of terms.

How can I possibly expect you to forgive me? The man I am now isn’t the same one who stood by your side in that kitchen, or the one you read to for hours on end.

I’m scared that I may have soiled all the good and kind things you felt for me, and the things I imagine might be left in their place are too painful to dwell on, yet I dwell anyway. I imagine disgust, grief, and anger. Or maybe just pure pain. Maybe you won’t even be able to look me in the eye, knowing what these hands have done.

I won’t lie to you, Alfie _—never you—_ I don’t regret most of it. Almost all of them deserved it, and I can’t say it’s in the past either. I haven’t stopped killing.

I’m sorry Alfie, but Bruce is wrong about this. He’s living in a black and white world, and because of that, people are getting hurt. I can’t just shove my head back into the sand and join him, I can’t.

I just wish that didn’t mean losing you too.

Love,

Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost left this at just the fluff, but then I thought… nah. Y’all’ve got to suffer.
> 
> Actual notes: I meant it about the never sending them bit. While letters like this are a great plot device to spark character drama (and hopefully reconciliation) I really can’t imagine Jason ever willingly sending them, and people reading them without his consent squicks me out. I’d love to read it if someone wrote it (that’s an invitation for anyone interested) but personally I wouldn’t be able to move past the inherent violation of the Batfam reading these. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Anyway, this was fun. Thanks so much for all the wonderful comments! They’re all so lovely and kind.


End file.
